


The Theory Of Relatives

by AmeliaHope



Series: A Study In Brotherhood [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adoption, Caring Sherlock, Hurt Mycroft, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, References to Neglect, references to violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-13 02:28:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5691220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmeliaHope/pseuds/AmeliaHope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While injured, Mycroft makes an unintentional revelation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Theory Of Relatives

“Just bruises – no broken bones.” The doctor put his stethoscope back in his bag while Mycroft struggled back into his shirt, his shaking fingers stopping him from doing the buttons up as swiftly as usual. “You need to take it easy for the next few weeks. I’ll give your assistant a prescription for pain relief.”

Mycroft nodded wordlessly, still struggling with his buttons. He was barely aware of the doctor leaving the room and Anthea returning. He only became aware of her presence when his hands were gently pushed away and she quickly did the buttons on his shirt back up.

She carefully rolled up his tie and placed it in his jacket pocket, before picking up the jacket and waistcoat and laying them over her arm. “The car is outside, Sir.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m taking you home.”

Mycroft shook his head.

“You need rest, Sir. I’ll take you home and then pick up your prescription.”

He rubbed his forehead wearily. “Greg is there.”

“I don’t think you can prevent him from finding out about this, Sir, not unless you blindfold him for the next two weeks until the bruises go down.”

Mycroft remained silent.

“He’s a detective, Sir, I think he might realise that something’s wrong.” She held out her hand to him to help him up from the seat.

He smiled slightly, accepting her help. “I know.”

“I could phone him and warn him if that would help.” She said as she guided him to the door.

“He’d only worry.” He replied, ignoring the concerned looks that were coming from his staff. He must have looked worse coming in but his memory of it was hazy.

The journey was slow, London traffic clogging up the streets and making it difficult for the black sedan to move through. Mycroft leaned back against the head rest and closed his eyes. He could hear Anthea typing away of her phone.

“I’ve rearranged your meetings for the rest of the week.” She said quietly.

“Thank you.” He didn’t open his eyes.

“We’re here, Sir.”

He opened his eyes, he hadn’t noticed that the car had stopped. He peered blearily through the window, recognising the building that they were parked in front of.

“Should I call the doctor back?”

“No.” He lifted his shaking hand to the door handle.

“Wait-“ Anthea got out of the car and opened his door, she helped him from the car and typed the code into the front door of the building. She led him towards the lift. He pulled back when he realised what they were waiting for. “Sir, you’re not going to be able to walk up the stairs.” He sighed and allowed her to push him into the lift before he could change his mind. She took his keys out of his jacket pocket and let them into the flat closing the door behind them.

“Myc? Is that you?” A voice called from within the flat. There was a clatter in the kitchen and footsteps down the hall. “What are you doing home in the middle of the day? Has the country fallen?” Greg appeared in the entrance hall. “Shit! What the hell happened?”

“National security.” Mycroft muttered, not looking at his partner.

“No, don’t pull that crap-“

“He really needs to rest, Detective Inspector.” Anthea said diplomatically.

Greg looked at her angrily for a second and then looked back at Mycroft. “You should be in hospital.”

“He’s seen a doctor, there’s nothing broken. I have a prescription for pain killers for him, I’ll go and collect it now.” She placed Mycroft’s keys down on the hall stand and hung his jacket and waistcoat up on the coat stand.

“They need to be hung properly.” Mycroft started before receiving dirty looks from Lestrade and Anthea.

“I’ll do it later.” Greg said with a sigh, putting his arm around Mycroft’s waist.

“I’ll be back with the prescription. Is there anything else you require, Sir?”

“Can you send the Slater report to the PM, it’s on my desk.” Mycroft said, leaning against Lestrade.

“That’s not quite what I meant but yes.” Anthea let herself out through the door and shut it behind her.

“Let’s get you into bed.” Lestrade murmured. “I normally sound more excited when I say that.”

Mycroft snorted painfully. “Don’t make me laugh.”

“Sorry.” Lestrade sat him down on the bed and began unbuttoning his shirt. “Jesus, Myc.” He pulled the shirt over Mycroft’s shoulders revealing the widespread bruising.

“It’s not as bad as it looks.”

“Good, otherwise you should be dead by now.”

“Please-“

“Sorry. We’ll talk about this later.”

Mycroft sighed loudly and stood while Lestrade helped remove his trousers. He pulled back the duvet and helped Mycroft to lie down. “I’ll get you a glass of water.” He returned a few minutes later and put the glass down on the bedside table.

“Lay beside me?” Lestrade looked a little surprised by the request, it wasn’t something he expected from Mycroft. Shrugging it off, he lay down beside Mycroft. “Does this happen often?”

“Not anymore.”

“Not anymore?”

“Not since I gave up _leg_ work.”

“Good.” He paused. “Did it used to happen often?”

“More often than I would have like.”

“Is that why you stopped working in the field?”

“Partly, and partly because I wanted to be closer to home.”

“Closer to home or closer to Sherlock?”

“Both.” Mycroft gave a small smile, wincing when it jostled his rapidly bruising cheek.

“Where does it hurt?”

“Everywhere.”

“Can you give me some clue as to what happened?”

“Not without worrying you more than I believe necessary.”

“Now I’m worried.”

“The assailant will not be bothering me again.”

“Or anyone else?”

“Or anyone else.” Mycroft agreed.

“Shit.”

“It was him or me.”

“Then I’m glad he’s dead.”

Mycroft reached over for his hand and squeezed it gently. “Don’t worry, I have excellent security.”

“Yeah, I can see that.”

“I’m not in any more danger than you are at work.”

“OK.”

They lay quietly for a few minutes before Lestrade realised that Mycroft was dozing. He heard a quiet knock on the door and got up to answer it without disturbing his partner.

“One tablet every four hours.” Anthea said, handing a paper bag to him. “The doctor also included a mild sedative.”

“A sedative?”

“Yes, Mr Holmes might need it but he won’t take it willingly. He’s quite suggestable though, when he’s taking pain relief. The instructions are all on the packets.”

“Why will he need a sedative?”

She frowned, unsure what to say.

“Anthea? What aren’t you telling me?”

“That’s not for me to say, Detective Inspector. Call me if you have any questions or if he deteriorates. I’ll manage his workload until he’s recovered.”

“Thanks.”

“Should I inform Sherlock?”

“Sherlock?” Greg was starting to become confused with this conversation, feeling that he was missing something.

“Yes, shall I phone him?”

“Would Mycroft want you to?”

“No. But Sherlock would want to know.”

“I wouldn’t have thought Sherlock would’ve been that concerned. He’s just bruised, isn’t he? Is this more serious than he’s led me to believe?”

“He’s just bruised but under the circumstances-“

“I’m starting to think that we’re not having the same conversation here.”

“I’ll inform Sherlock. He’ll probably want to see Mr Holmes.”

“What? Sherlock never wants to see Mycroft.”

“He will now. He might be a bit tense. If he doesn’t bring Doctor Watson with him then you may want to call him.”

“OK.”

“And watch Mr Holmes carefully for any signs of a head injury. The doctor thinks he’s just concussed but watch him.” Anthea looked torn. “I could stay if you want.”

Lestrade shook his head. “No, it’s fine.”

“You’ll call if you need me?”

Lestrade closed the door behind her, looking confused. He went back to the bedroom. “Myc?”

Mycroft opened an eye and looked at Greg with confusion.

“I have your prescription. You need to take a pain killer, then you can rest.” He helped Mycroft sit up slightly and handed him the tablet.

Mycroft took the water glass from him with shaking hands and swallowed the medication down. “Thank you.” He dropped back down on the pillows and sighed.

“Anthea is calling Sherlock.”

“Oh, God. He’s going to come here and be horrendous.”

“Why? Normally he heads in the opposite direction when he sees you.”

“Hmmm. Will you lay down with me again.”

“Of course.” He went around to the other side of the bed and got under the duvet. He pressed a gentle kiss to the side of Mycroft’s head before lying there and contemplating what Anthea had said.

He must have fallen asleep because suddenly it was dark and there was a banging at the door. He extracted himself from the tangled bedding and opened the door to an irate looking Sherlock.

“Where is he?” Sherlock demanded.

“Ssh, he’s asleep.” Greg stood back as Sherlock pushed through the door. “Hi John.”

“Er?” John looked at Lestrade with confusion on his face.

Greg and John followed Sherlock back down the hall and into the master bedroom. Sherlock stopped when he saw his brother covered in bruises.

“Sherlock? Are you alright?” John asked.

Sherlock shrugged John’s concern away, focusing on his brother. “Mycroft?”

Mycroft stirred in the bed but didn’t wake.

“John, check him for a head injury.”

“A doctor has already seen him, he thinks it’s just concussion.” Greg said.

Sherlock ignored Lestrade. “He had a skull fracture when he was eleven.”

“What?”

“He hasn’t told you then? John, check him please.”

John nodded, taking a torch out. “Mycroft? Open your eyes?”

Mycroft looked dozily up at John. “Doctor Watson?”

“It’s ok. I’m just checking you over. Any nausea? Blurred vision?”

“Mmm.” Mycroft murmured, going back to sleep.

John examined his skull gently. “I don’t think there's a fracture. He’d need to go to hospital for a scan to be certain but I don’t think it’s necessary. I’m concerned about his level of consciousness though. He doesn’t seem very aware.”

Sherlock picked up the tablet packet from the bedside table. “Has he taken any of these?” He asked Lestrade.

“Yeah, one. Why?”

“That’s why he’s so drowsy. Not the head injury.” Sherlock said, handing the packet over to John. “Pain relief knocks him out.”

“Well, he needs someone to watch him but all he can do now is rest.”

“Can you give us a minute?” Sherlock asked, waiting for John and Greg to leave the room. “My? Mycroft?”

“What is it, Lock?” Mycroft frowned, refusing to open his eyes.

“You need to tell him.”

“Who?”

“Lestrade. You need to tell him the truth. He knows that something is wrong.”

Mycroft shook his head painfully. “No. Don’t want him to know.”

“Why?”

“Please, don’t argue.”

Uncharacteristically, Sherlock backed down immediately. “Ok. Shall I stay?”

“There’s no need.”

“Can I stay?”

“Who are you and what’ve you done with my brother?”

“Shut up.”

“At least you haven’t got a pirate sword in your hand this time.”

“I have one at Baker Street, a proper one, I could send John for it.”

“No thank you, Brother-Mine. I’ve been hit over the head with a pirate sword more than enough times already.”

“I’ve never hit you with a sword.”

“You remember when you came to visit me in hospital after?”

“Yes.”

“And you got into the bed with me.”

“Don’t remind me.” Sherlock looked irritated.

“You hit me with your sword then. You tried to hug me but you hit me over the head, which was exactly what I needed.”

“That never happened.”

“I assure you, it did.”

“You must be really concussed to think that.”

“Believe that if you want.” Mycroft opened an eye and took a long look at his brother. “Don’t worry, Sherlock. I’ll be fine.”

“I’m not worried.”

“Right. “

“I’ll let Gareth back in now.”

“Greg.” Mycroft corrected.

“Greg.”

“And you may want to explain his presence to Doctor Watson.”

“What? Oh.” Sherlock opened the door and let Lestrade back into the room. “I’m staying.” He stated.

“Really?” Lestrade moved back over to the bed. “Myc?”

“I’m fine.”

John pulled Sherlock aside. “Er?”

“My brother and Lestrade are in a relationship, isn’t that obvious?”

“OK.”

“Yes, I know it’s OK.”

“Can I get back to my wife and daughter now? It’s almost bath time and it’s my turn.”

“Yes.” Sherlock said, standing beside the window.

John let himself out after giving the odd group of men one more bemused look.

“You’re really staying?” Greg asked after Mycroft had fallen asleep again.

“Yes, that’s what I said.”

“Sherlock, this is weird behaviour for you. You’ve never shown this much concern for him before.”

“This is different.”

“Why? John thinks he’s going to be fine. And this seems to be an occupational hazard for him.”

“I know.” 

“Then why are you suddenly so concerned for him?”

“He’s my brother.” Sherlock replied simply.

Greg nodded, still looking a little confused. “Should you call your parents?”

“No, I’ll let them know in a few days. If I call them now they’ll be on the first train to London and I don’t think Mycroft would appreciate that.”

“But he doesn’t mind you staying?”

“Trust me, I’m far easier to put up with than my mother.”

“I’ve met your mother, she’s lovely.”

“But you’ve never met her when her child was injured. You don’t want her here.”

“I’ll make up the spare bed for you. Can you stay with him until I get back.”

“Yes.”

Lestrade got up to leave the room.

“Has he been prescribed a sedative?”

“Yes. Anthea said that he probably wouldn’t want it.”

“You may need to trick him into thinking it is a pain killer. He’d notice normally but it should slip past him when he’s concussed and high on pain relief.”

“Why will he need a sedative? He doesn’t seem too upset by what happened.”

“He doesn’t, does he?”

“Will you just spit it out. You and Anthea have both been dancing around something with this bloody sedative. If there’s something that I should know then just tell me.”

Sherlock sighed. “You’ll know soon enough. But it’s not for me to say.”

“Right, I’ll go and make up the bed. I’ll see if I can find something for you to sleep in.”

“No need, if I know my brother as well as I think I do then there will be clothes to fit me in there.” Sherlock watched as Mycroft slept peacefully while Lestrade was out of the room.

“All ready for you. Do you want something to eat?”

“No. I’ll leave you now. Call me if he wakes.”

“OK.”

 

_Sherlock_

 

It was still the early hours of the morning when Greg was woken by the sound of shouting beside him. He switched the lamp on immediately and saw Mycroft sitting bolt upright in bed, staring wide eyed at the wall opposite.

“Myc? You’re just having a nightmare. You’re alright.” He placed a hand gently on Mycroft's shoulder.

“No!” Mycroft flinched at the contact, pushing him away and backing into the wall.

The door opened and Sherlock was beside his brother at once. He pulled Lestrade out of the way and sat down on his side of the bed. “My? It’s Sherlock. You’re safe.”

“Lock?” Mycroft held a hand out to Sherlock, blindly searching for his brother.

“That’s right. You’re safe. You have a head injury but you are safe. Look at me, Mycroft.”

Mycroft eventually turned to face Sherlock, recognition appeared in his eyes. “Sherlock? Are you OK? Where am I? Where is he?”

“We’re both fine. You’re at home. At your flat in London. And he isn’t here. He can’t hurt you.”

“Sherlock?” He repeated, looking around the room in confusion.

“That’s right, keep looking at me. You were injured at work today. Your security dealt with it but you’re concussed and your ribs are bruised. That’s why you’re in pain.”

Mycroft nodded, accepting the truth that Sherlock was telling him.

Sherlock took two tablets from the packets, a pain killer and a sedative. “I need you to take these, they’re just pain killers.”

Mycroft swallowed the tablets down without questioning them.

“Lie back down. I’ll sit beside you until you fall asleep.” It took ten minutes before Sherlock was convinced that Mycroft was deeply asleep. He stood up from the bed and pulled the duvet up over his brother’s shoulders.

“Sherlock? What the hell was that?” Greg whispered.

“That was why he needs the sedative. I doubt he’ll remember any of this in the morning, he never does.”

“I don’t understand-“

“No surprises there.”

“Sherlock!” Greg growled. "What the hell is going on?"

“Mycroft needs to tell you this. He wouldn’t want me to. He might talk tomorrow. His tongue is always a bit loser when he’s dosed up on pain killers. He should sleep for the rest of the night without any problems.”

“OK.” Sherlock stood and left the room, leaving Lestrade thoroughly confused.

 

_Sherlock_

 

Lestrade found Sherlock in the kitchen early the next morning finishing a cup of tea. “There’s more in the pot.”

“It’s just tea? You’ve not put anything poisonous in it, have you?”

“Of course not. There’s nothing poisonous here.” He picked his phone up from table. “Molly called, she has some body parts for me. There’s an unidentified microbe growing on them that may have come from the sewer where the body was found.”

“OK, more information than I needed this early in the morning but OK.”

Sherlock stopped. “I can stay, the mould can wait.”

“We’ll be OK.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’ll phone you if we have any problems.”

Sherlock nodded. “Convince him to talk to you. He needs to.” Sherlock left the flat, slamming the door behind him.

Greg looked questioningly at the tea in the pot. He decided against risking it and emptied the remains of the tea down the sink before brewing a fresh pot. He placed the tea pot, cups and the milk jug on a tray and carried it into their bedroom.

Mycroft woke up to the smell of tea.

“Do you want a cup?”

“Mmm.”

Lestrade poured a cup and placed it within Mycroft’s reach. “How are you feeling?”

“Sore.” Mycroft replied, taking a mouthful of tea. “Nothing a good cup of tea won’t fix.”

“You woke up during the night.” Lestrade said casually, sitting back down with his own cup.

Mycroft blushed and looked down at his cup. “I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing to apologise for.” Greg caught Mycroft’s eye. “Nothing. You know why I’m bringing it up?”

“Yes. I suppose Sherlock drugged me after.”

“Yeah but only with what the doctor had prescribed.”

“Good. He once slipped me something he made himself, he put it in my tea.” Mycroft looked down at the cup in his hand. “He didn’t make this, did he?”

“No. I threw out what he made and made fresh. He said he hadn’t poisoned it but I didn’t want to risk it.”

“Probably for the best. I still have no memory of the two weeks after he drugged me. God knows what he gave me.”

“I won’t let him poison you. I promise.”

Mycroft smiled and took another sip. “I suppose you have questions.”

“A few.”

“I’m sorry, I should have told you before but Sherlock and I, well, our parents are not our biological parents.”

“I’d worked that out for myself.”

“Really? I’ll let Sherlock know, he’ll be impressed.”

“Your mother showed me photos of you two when you were children. It seemed odd that there were none before you were about ten.”

“Eleven but you are quite correct. Sherlock and I were adopted. Until then we were brought up, and I use the term loosely, by our mother and Sherlock’s father. We were neglected. No one knew that we existed. They didn’t send us to school or look after us, there was never any food or heating. They were usually drunk. I cared for Sherlock. His father hated me. He wasn’t particularly fond of Sherlock either but he hated me and when he had been drinking he used to hit me.”

“That’s how you fractured your skull.”

“Yes. He knocked me unconscious and then left. The police found him in a pub days later. Sherlock saved my life. He was only four and he’d never even been out of our flat before but he let himself out and knocked on doors until a lady answered, she followed Sherlock back to our flat and called an ambulance. Sherlock and I were taken away and eventually adopted.”

“Jesus, I can see why Sherlock was so worried about you last night. God, four? He must have been terrified.”

“He was. And we’d never been separated before, he was alone with strangers for two weeks before I was released from hospital.”

“Shit.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I’ve never told anyone before. Sherlock has told Doctor Watson but no one else knows.”

“You should have told me or at least prepared me for last night.”

“Sherlock told me to but I hate talking about it.”

“Why?”

Mycroft considered it. “I suppose I feel guilty acknowledging that our parents aren’t our real parents.”

“But they are your real parents, they might not be biologically but they are your real parents.”

Mycroft looked at his hands. “And I didn’t want you to pity me.”

Greg reached over and took Mycroft’s hands in his own. “I wouldn’t have pitied you. But I would have been able to support you better last night.”

“I don’t remember what happened last night. I never do. And Sherlock seems to be the only person who can calm me.”

“Does it happen often?”

“Only when I’m injured like that. I suppose you’d call it post-traumatic stress disorder but it’s never been diagnosed. I assume the pain and the confusion makes me think that I’m back there.”

“I wish you’d told me.”

“Please, Greg, don’t let it change how you think of me.”

“It doesn’t but it does remind me how strong you are.”

“Can you forgive me for not telling you?”

Greg placed a hand gently on Mycroft’s face. “There’s nothing to forgive. I wish you’d told me but I would never ask you to talk about anything that makes you uncomfortable. If there are things that you want to tell me I'll listen but I’d never force you to tell me anything that you don’t want to. I accepted long ago that you have to keep secrets from me, with your job and everything. I’m OK with that but there is nothing that you can tell me that will stop me loving you.”

“You’re too good for me.”

“Never.” They lay quietly together for a while until Greg decided that it was time for Mycroft to take another tablet.

“This is just pain relief, isn’t it?” Lestrade showed him the packet before helping him to the bathroom and then into the living room to sit down. He made them soup for lunch and they ate it together on the sofa with the TV quietly on in the background.

“You have more questions.” Mycroft said, switching the TV off.

“Is it just an act, the way Sherlock normally behaves around you?”

“No. Sherlock was angry with me for a long time, we’ve only recently reconciled.”

“What happened?”

“I did something when he was a teenager. I thought I was protecting him but he couldn’t forgive me for it.”

“What did you do?”

“I stopped him from seeing his father. I was wrong. We didn’t speak for years. By the time he was talking to me again, it was too late – he had already started taking drugs. That was my fault.”

“It wasn’t your fault. He chose to do drugs, you didn’t force him.”

Mycroft shook his head. “I had just started working for MI5, I threw myself into my work after we fell out. I wasn’t there for him.”

“But if he wasn’t talking to you.”

“I pushed him away just as much as he pushed me.”

“Why?”

“I was hurt that he wanted to see his father.”

“What about your father?”

“I think he left her when she was pregnant with me. That would explain why she hated me so much but I don’t know who he was or why he left. He could have been a one night stand for all I know.”

“It’s OK.”

Mycroft smiled sadly. “We’d never celebrated a birthday before we were taken away. We didn’t even understand the concept. Our births hadn’t been registered so we don’t actually know when either of us were born.”

“You don’t know your date of birth?”

“No. They estimated Sherlock’s age and I knew that he was born during the winter. They estimated my age as well but I have no idea what time of year I was born. Social services gave us each a date of birth based on a doctor’s estimation. We’ve never really celebrated our birthdays, there never seemed much point in celebrating a randomly chosen date. We celebrated the date of our adoption instead.”

“When is it?”

“The 22nd of June.”

“We’ll celebrate it this year.”

“We don’t have to.”

“We should, we could invite Sherlock, and John and Mary, and your parents.”

“That sounds nice.”

“Nice?”

“Yes. Forgive me, the analgesia is affecting my vocabulary.”

“Is that your way of saying that you’re stoned on pain killers?”

“Yes.”

“I quite like drugged up Mycroft. I feel like I’m almost on the same level as you, intellectually I mean.”

Mycroft laughed. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”

 


End file.
